


Ease The Dawn

by kalymnos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 10:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalymnos/pseuds/kalymnos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean accidentally calls Lisa after a hunt gone wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ease The Dawn

"Sam," Dean half-growls, half-rasps into Sam's voicemail, trying to make his voice heard over the rain and wind yowling through the forest trees, "you better get your ass here." 

He fumbles the makeshift tourniquet around his upper arm, hitches the strip of shirt into his mouth and just flat-out wrenches, muffling his moan deep in the folds of his tucked-down chin. "I'm not going down to a fucking _banshee_ ," he tells Sam disgustedly through the phone balanced atop his shoulder, scowling as the keys mash and blare against his cheek in an obnoxious ha-ha. Seriously, he may be a little past the other side of thirty, but there's going out on a hunt in style, and then there's this. He pants out haggard, wet breaths and surveys the bloody mess of his leg, twisted in a way that almost makes Dean gag. Broken in at least one place, and it's like that night in Bobby's salvage yard all over again. He won't be moving on his own any time soon. Streams of water and blood twine and run together through the dirt beside him, and it'd be kind of pretty, Dean thinks weirdly, if he didn't feel like throwing up.

Dean rattles off what he can remember of his location and frowns. "This is totally uncool. It's – " He ponders the right word and shifts slightly, and motherfucking _ow_ – yep, definitely broken in two places, and he knows from one – "It's undignified," he grits out, "and it's just not happening, Sam, okay. I will haunt your ass if you let me die here. I swear to God, I fucking mean it." 

He sighs and tips his head back onto the tree he had slumped against, blinking. He can't figure out if it's sweat or rain or tears in his eyes, and on top of that he's fucking cold and drenched. He'll probably drown before he passes out from blood loss, jesus. "Fucking bitch took a swing just as I unloaded, can you goddamn believe it Sam. Luckiest swing I ever saw," Dean says, and it's the perfect moment for him to remember the flask he stashed in his jacket pocket as he was leaving the motel. Sam had his back turned at the time, and would no doubt have sent him one of his stock-standard despairing, _I-wish-you-wouldn't_ looks, so Dean magnanimously decides on full disclosure, as he fishes uncomfortably for the flask and takes a swig. Mmmm. It's honey trickling down his insides.

"Sam, just so you know. I'm having a drink. I might die out here tonight – " and goddamn he can just see Sam's eyeroll at that, _don't be so fucking dramatic, Dean, you're not dying, jesus_ , except this time he really might be. "And I think that qualifies for a drink," he finishes, and takes a long drag. Some of it dribbles out of his mouth, slides down his neck and under the gape in his shirts. Dean pictures his tattoo a smear of blood and whiskey, and thinks that Sam should cut it from his chest and burn the rest of him. Only good part on him. He grins and slurps down some more, feeling himself go blissfully light-headed.

Dean thinks about dying, about maybe seeing Dad and Mom and just killing time waiting for Sam to come up and join him – no more monsters, no more blood on his hands – and figures, except for the whole banshee thing (which is just a blow to a man's pride, seriously, but maybe Sam'll lie and say it was a griffin that took him down, which could be okay – griffins are badass), he's way past okay with kicking it in. Sam doesn't really need him anymore, he got past all that hell stuff just fine on his own, and that's cool. That's good, and that's why Dean can just slip away quietly here now. He just needs to get Sam to – 

"Sam, you gotta promise me – " Except he's cut off as the phone beeps rudely in his ear, ending the message. Dean harrumphs and claps it shut. He glares at it, or tries to, anyway. His vision's almost gone and he's about to pass out.

"Well, fuck you too, bitch," he manages to mumble, before the world goes silent.

***

There's something vibrating against Dean's palm. Something's there vibrating and he can't open his eyes to figure out what it is. There's also a wetness on his face, a throbbing pain in his arm, and something seriously wrong with his leg, judging by the way he can't feel it. His pulse quickens. "Sam," he punches out in a panicked breath, because if he's like this, Sam has got to be worse. 

He remembers in flashes – tracking the banshee into the woods, guessing wrong and getting slashed in the arm for it, pulling the trigger and not moving out of the way quick enough to avoid being slammed against a tree. He flicks open the phone with his thumb and weakly raises his arm.

"Saaaam," he groans. 

"Sorry, um. Hi, I'm – I think you called the wrong number."

The voice on the line is distant and half-muted by the wind, but Dean stills immediately. Slowly, he pulls back the phone and stares at the name on the screen.

_Lisa Braeden._

He barely hears the, _Hello? Are you there?_ , but he must be outside his own mind, because he draws the handset back to his ear and exhales shakily. 

"You're hurt, aren't you?" she says, and doesn't wait for him to reply. "Look, I listened to the voicemail, and I know you meant to send it to someone called Sam, but for some reason I got it instead. I'm – I'm Lisa."

Before he can contemplate the question of _how_ , it's all there in her voice; the year he spent with her, the memories he holds filed away in a deep, dark catalogue at the back of his mind, the memories she doesn't have because he stole them from her, and he – he can't. "I can't," he says abruptly, and goes to hang up, but her panicked voice makes him stop.

"Dean, wait! Please. Please don't hang up. This is Dean, right?"

He doesn't think. He doesn't otherwise he would snap the phone shut, he'd hang up without a second's hesitation instead of risk unravelling all he'd done to make them safe. "How'd you – "

"Sam's coming," she interrupts, words coming clear and strong. "He's coming for you. He's not far away, so what you have to do is stay with me on the line. Talk to me and don't fall asleep and I'll tell you how I know and then Sam will come and you'll be okay. Nobody's dying on my watch. You just have to stay on the phone with me. Can you – can you do that?"

Dean doesn't answer. He thinks, maybe the magic didn't stick, maybe the memory wipe miracle Cas worked somehow failed, and for a fleeting, disgusting, _selfish_ second he's actually elated. _She remembers_. She remembers him, and maybe Ben does too. 

"Dean?" Even through her worry, her voice is husky and soothing just like he remembers, and it works sweeter than a shot of whiskey to dull the sharp edge of pain creeping back in. 

He closes his eyes and he wants – he doesn't know what he wants. He wants to sleep, but he needs answers, so he breathes out, "Yeah," and hears her heavy sigh of relief, the smile that tinkers down the line.

"Thanks." 

Dean waits. The wind has died down a little, and only a light rain falls.

"Hi Dean," Lisa says warmly after a few beats, like she's introducing herself properly, and this time he can see her smile behind his eyes. It's a feel-better smile, a wobbly-edged smile, a sister to the post-nightmare smile she'd bury in his hair along with the tears he'd pretend he couldn't feel trickling down his scalp. She huffs out a self-deprecating breath, jarring Dean back to the present. "This feels weird. I almost feel like I've met you before, but I guess I wanna – do you mind if I tell you a little about myself? So it doesn't feel like you're listening to a stranger."

Dean swallows hard and clenches his jaw. He works to fight down the twinge of disappointment at the confirmation that everything Cas did worked the way he planned; the teasing, torturous _She's got no clue who you are_. "Right."

"Not like a first date, or anything," Lisa says quickly, and it's clear she's a little nervous as she starts to ramble. "Those things are awkward and clichéd and do you know how many sleazy guys I've gone out with who think yoga instructor is code for nymphomaniac?" 

_But you are amazing in bed,_ Dean's mind unhelpfully supplies. 

"I've got a thirteen-year-old kid and a mortgage I can't afford, I am the opposite of a good first-date." She laughs at herself. "I guess that about covers me. Broke, single mother. Men, form an orderly line."

Dean sighs, feeling sluggish and confused and so close to breaking point. He does _not_ need another reason to love Lisa Braeden. "Look, Lise, I just wanna know what's going on."

There's a pause, and then she says gently, "Hey, now. I'm not that easy. You wanna know something from me, you gotta tell me something about you. But you don't have to talk. You're saving your strength for when Sam comes. I'll guess."

Dean wants to argue, wants to know, but instead finds himself surrendering, as he settles himself down as comfortably as he can against the tree, and focuses on taking deep, even breaths. "G'ahead."

"No falling asleep on me," she says sternly, and it's every _don't-think-I'm-ever-gonna-let-anything-bad-happen-to-you-again_ he's heard her mutter fiercely to Ben as he sleeps, only directed at him. He has no choice but to obey.

And they talk.

Yes, Sam is his brother. Yes, he and Sam work together. No, they're not cops. No, not military and no, banshee is not code for anything. Yes, it's pretty much impossible to guess what they really do.

"You looked after your brother a lot, didn't you, Dean?" Lisa says after a round of questions. "I mean, it's not exactly like me and Ben, but it's kind of similar. You taught him stuff?" She sighs. "Sometimes I feel like there aren't enough hours in the day for me to teach him everything he needs to know to be safe."

Dean's stricken. "He's okay, right? You guys are safe, you're not – "

"We're not in the nicest suburb, but we're fine," she says, "it's just – you know I taught him nearly everything. I taught him to walk, and count, and read letters. He can change a lightbulb, and cook fried eggs, and he's getting to know how to use the washing machine. I taught him those things. But the other day, I came home from work when Ben was asleep and I went to lock the windows in the living room. There's this one window. It's almost impossible to lock if you don't know the trick. You've gotta give it a whack-bam-wiggle-wiggle. And the other day I went to lock it but Ben had already done it, he told me so in the morning. Thing is, I knew I hadn't taught him the trick. He must've watched me do it."

"Must've," Dean muttered, thinking instead of the two hours he'd spent teaching Ben the trick while his mom was out, so that he'd be able to look after her, look after them both. He swallows.

"I know it's nothing. It's just – I know I can't teach him everything. I can't teach him what his schoolteachers can, and he'll learn from his friends, and that's okay. I just don't want there to be a time when he doesn't need me, you know?" She huffs a laugh.

"Lise, listen to me." Dean shifts up a little, presses the phone against his ear. He summons a strength to his voice he didn't think he could. "There will never be a time when he doesn't need you. Do you get that? He won't always need you for the little things, like making his lunch or whatever. But for the big stuff, you've gotta know he'll need you."

"Yeah, I know," Lisa says lightly, almost dismissively. "I just wanted to know if you knew that."

Dean blinks, feeling like he's been had. "What?"

"Hey Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Sam," Lisa says simply, "will always need you."

Dean splutters. "He –"

"Will always need you." 

Sighing, Dean grits out, "My – Sammy had a rough time recently. He, uh." He lets his mind drift over the sleepless nights, the times he'd look into Sam's eyes and not recognise him for all the madness. "It got really bad there for a while. But he got himself out, you know, he hung tough and fought like a champ and he did it all by himself. And I just – watched. So, thanks, Lisa, I really appreciate what you're saying. But trust me, my brother don't need me."

There's a pause. "I had a friend, back in high school. Great grades, athletic, warm and funny. She killed herself when we were about to graduate. Her note said she couldn't stand the loneliness." Lisa clears her throat. "Do you think Sam feels lonely, Dean?"

"How can he, we spend every hour of every day together, in crappy cars and crappy motel rooms and – "

"You wanna hear something weird, Dean?"

 _Not really_ , Dean thinks, but he says, "Sure."

"When your call came up on my cell, it came up as 'Emergency'. And I couldn't understand, I always thought that was the pre-programmed 911 contact number the cell phone company puts in. And then I found the second number listed under 'Emergency', and I called it."

"Sam," Dean breathed the second it clicked. Sam must have programmed their numbers into Lisa's cell in the hospital that day.

"Yeah. I think you guys have some explaining to do about why your numbers were in my cell, and I don't know why I feel like I can trust you, since all signs point directly to jail, but I normally go with my gut. So here we are and I'm going with it for now, and you can fill me in on the details later. But when I called Sam to say that this guy had left me a voicemail asking for Sam to come save him, you know what Sam's first reaction was?"

Dean waits.

"He nearly cried, Dean. I could hear it, and he said, _thank god he called_. Like, he expected you not to call when you were dying and needed help. Why would he think that, Dean? And does that sound like a guy who doesn't need you?"

He doesn't know. Dimly, in the distance, Dean can hear Sam yelling for him, panic-stricken and adrenaline-fuelled. "I don't know," he says softly. "He's coming."

"Call me when you're better, Dean," Lisa says. "Get better, okay?"

 

He doesn't know. But he thinks he might stick around to find out.

 

END.

**Author's Note:**

> For the hoodie_time h/c challenge number six, prompt by nwspaprtaxis.


End file.
